The Vermont watchman. [volume] (Montpelier, Vt.) 1883-1911, 1887-06-01
miscellaneous.
Written for the Waterman.
Life Among the Cow Boys.
by ONE OF THEM.

Some men own ranches larger than
others. Three thousand cattle is called
a good-sized stock. One man has
certain range, and the others respect it
and will not put cattle on it, There
are no fences except for small pastures
one mile square. The law does not al
low larger ones. We never kill any
cattle here, except one or two at time
for our own use. They usually ship
three-year-old steers to st. Louis and
get from three to five cents per pound.
The nearest railroad is one hundred
miles from here. We have to herd
them to the road, taking from twenty
to forty days, according to how much
they Craze on the way. The country
is not settled, except on streams, and
one can ride for days without seeing
single house.
Now, as to cowboys. Take. them as
class, there are no better men at
heart. Though they are a rough and
merry set in towns, let one get into
trouble and they will stand by
him. When they leave camp in
the morning they cannot tell when
they will return. They have to sleep
with nothing to cover them except
their saddle-b blankets, and this in all
kinds of weather. When on night
herds they have to take it time about
for night-watch. If the cattle stam-
pede in a storm they have to follow
them, or rather ride ahead of them I'M
til they stop. over hills and through
canyons, seeing nothing except by
flashes of lightning.
will try and relate chapter of cow
boy life which even now brings tears
to my eyes. In the spring of 70 a
young man left his pleasant home in
North Carolina and came out here to
be cowboy. He got a job with our
outfit, G y brand. The boys all called
him " the kid from the States - and
made fun of his attempt to lasso, but
in short time he got on to all the
rackets, and no one could throw a rope
better or ride more recklessly than Tom,
and he could shoot to perfection. In
the spring of 80 we were camped on
the North Canadian, taking a drove of
cattle to Kansas. Tom was taken sick
one night and died the next evening.
How well | remember that evening!
The sun was setting behind the white
capped clouds, and gentle wind
famed his pale cheeks. Not even
coyote broke the stiffness with its dis
NAL howl. The boys had gathered
around to see their "pardner" die.
Some of them might be called bad men,
but none waited on him more tenderly.
Raise me up, Dave" he said, "and
let me look out once more, for when
to-morrow's sun rises land he burst
into tears. "Boys, when 1 die you
all must not forget me-" "Hush up,
Tom," said Tom Purdy; "you are not
going to die" Boys" he went on,
4 hoped when should die might be
laid in the little church-yard at home,
where my sister could plant flowers
over my grave: but now 1 must lie by
the Canadian, and the wolves will howl
over me. / never shall be with YOU
again at your round-ups and camp
fires. Boys, l want you to sing the
Song of the Dying Cowboy" We
gathered round him and sang it. How
sad it sounded as the mournful tune
rose and fell on the evening air. Just
as we finished Tom sank back. dead.
When the moon rose that night it
looked down upon sad group of men
around a prairie grave. One wrote
this on rough board: "Tom Martin.
Resting. May LIST, $780," Men say
cowboys are rough and have no hearts,
but that night showed that they had
hearts. Weep, o mother, for your boy
sleeps beneath the sands of the North
Canadian! Below give the song in
full.
"Oh! bury me not on the lone prairie!"
These words came slow and mournfully
From the pad lips of youth who lay
On his dying couch at the close of day.
His cheeks grew pale and his pulse beat slow,
As the clouds of death DER him rolled;
He talked of home and the loved ones there.
As the cowboys gathered to see him die
"Ohl hurry m nor nm tho lona nrairia
Where the wild coyotes will howl over me,
For always wished to be buried when died.
In the little church-yard ON the green hillside.
at matters not so I've been told,
Where the body lies when the heart grows cold
But when am gone weep not for me-
Oh! bury me not on the lone prairie.
" OH bury me not and the words failed there;
But we needed not his dying prayer.
In narrow grave, just six by three,
We buried him there on the lone prairie
There the wind blew cold on a dark old trail
There the moonbeams spark ed on prairie grave;
IT'S the weknown tramp of a poor COW hoy
Who stayed far away old cow-trail
IN reply to letter from the clergy
men of Baltimore, urging better OBJ
servance of Sunday in the army, Gen.
eral Sheridan writes that all military
men assert that the rule of one days
rast in sayan ic not opIv x.,;eo h.. l.